The Five Stages of Grief
by Kaede-tama
Summary: Alfred talked, laughed, pulled him along in their own little dance in the middle of the sidewalk, under the sunshine, was so full of life. Now his fingers are cold.


**a/n:** This probably doesn't make sense. But the urge to write was killing meee ; A ;  
/unedited.

* * *

**The Five Stages of Grief**

The phone rings.

It's a sharp, high-pitched keen that cuts through the silence of Matthew's bedroom. The clock reads the time_(5:36 am)_ and the date_(7/4)_ in red, glaring digits.

Indigo eyes blearily open as he fumbles on the bedside drawer for the phone, finally catching hold of it in his grasp and answering the call. Pressing the cold device against his ear, he slurs, too immersed in drowsiness to care for formalities, "What?"

The answering voice is that of a woman's - professional, yet tinged with cautiousness at the same time. She speaks; Matthew hears.

When she has finished explaining, trailing off into an uncertain, uncomfortable silence

_(-an accident, sir, off the highway, and we've identified the vehicle to a man named Alfr-)_

all Matthew can do is sit there, numb. The words register somewhere in his rapidly clearing mind, but his limbs aren't working properly and he feels like he's suffocating.

He doesn't realize he's crying until he reaches up to put his glasses on, only for his hands to brush damp cheeks.

* * *

He remembers bright blue eyes, wide grins, well-intentioned words and amorous embraces. He remembers enthusiasm, joy,_ liveliness._

Just the day before, they went out for ice cream, and over a cone of cookies and cream, Alfred told him with mirthful eyes, "I think I'm in love with you, Mattie."

Alfred talked, laughed, pulled him along in their own little dance in the middle of the sidewalk, under the sunshine, was so full of life.

Now his fingers are cold.

Matthew buries his head into his hands, unable to stand the whiteness of the room and the sight of Alfred so damaged and _broken_ on the hospital bed.

The funeral is crowded and solemn and bleak. Matthew stands off to the side and closes his eyes when the coffin is lowered into the ground. He hears the priest ask if anyone would like to say some parting words, and that's when he has to push himself out of the mass of people(_faceless strangers - mostly Alfred's friends but strangers all the same)_ before he can lose his calm.

Arthur knocks on his car window several minutes after he retreats. Matthew unlocks the passenger door and does not say anything when the other climbs in.

"Alfred…" Arthur begins - stops, sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

It hasn't really settled in on Matthew yet. He doesn't feel Arthur squeeze his hand comfortingly, nor does he see the pity in his older brother's eyes. Instead he feels the warmth of Alfred's hand clasped around his and the adoration shining in sky blue orbs.

"I'm okay," he mumbles.

Arthur ignores him. He reaches over and gathers him into a hug, perhaps trying to lend some assurance, arms tight around the younger boy.

"No, really," Matthew chokes out. His eyes sting with tears and he screws them shut, fingers digging into Arthur's back. "I'm okay, I'm okay." He repeats these two words over and over_(trying to convince himself)_ but the truth is, Alfred is gone, and Matthew is far, far, far from being okay.

* * *

Last words - what were his last words to him?

Alfred was coming home early to celebrate his birthday. Matthew had the alarm set for six so he could be awake by the time his lover got home and greet him.

He thinks it might have been a "See you tomorrow."

He wishes he could have said "I love you" instead but that's just another regret to add to the ever-growing list.

The apartment is quiet.

There are no fake sounds of gunfire coming from their TV, loud singing to the radio, or sweet words being cooed into his ear. Matthew can't count on two hands how many times he berated Alfred for being too loud, but the lack of noise now is unsettling.

Everything seems bigger - the couch, the bed. Matthew once suggested that they get a new couch for the sake of not having to fear it breaking any moment, but Alfred pouted and sulked until Matthew promised he wouldn't sell the old thing. Now he doesn't know why he ever wanted to get rid of it; the memories that they had on it are countless.

He remembers a time when they watched Titanic together, how Alfred held him in his arms while he cried at the ending_(loving, comforting)_, how he frowned up at the other through teary eyes and asked why he wasn't as affected. He remembers, crystal clear, how Alfred answered honestly, "I wasn't really paying attention 'cause I was too busy staring at you."

He remembers Alfred, who never forgot a holiday, an anniversary, a birthday. Alfred, who always found an excuse to go out of his way to spoil Matthew. Alfred, who was extraordinarily loud around others but was much more gentle when with Matthew. Alfred, who entered his life, who loved him and, in return, made Matthew fall in love with him too.

_(Alfred, who is dead.)_

* * *

The cake is still sitting in the fridge, with the words _Happy birthday!_ written across in blue and red frosting. It's chocolate flavored - Alfred's favorite - and it even has a little American flag designed on the corner.

Matthew yanks it out of the fridge and hurls it across the room, fueled by irrational anger. It smashes against the wall and slides to the floor in a mess of red-blue-and-white frosting.

Next are the bottles of soda, the ones that Alfred loved to drink, flung into the marble counter.

Next are the papers hanging on the fridge - silly little sticky notes_("I'll be home soon," "You're so awesome," "I love you") _and shopping lists and others that seep with domesticity. Matthew rips them to shreds.

When the kitchen is a mess of glass shards and torn paper and smeared food, Matthew finally stops, chest heaving, fists clenched. His feet is caked with blood from stepping on pieces of broken bottle, but the pain is nothing compared to how much he so desperately wants to rip his own heart out.

* * *

He crawls into the bed that he and Alfred _(used to)_ share, a familiar bomber jacket clutched tightly to his chest. The leather smells faintly of Alfred, and Matthew keeps it pressed against his cheeks in one last pathetic attempt to preserve what he used to have.

Alfred once proposed to him with a RingPop and promised that one day, it would be a real ring that he'll slide onto his ring finger. "And then," the blue-eyed blond said against his lips, "I can start calling you Mattie Jones."

Memories that seemed so insignificant before resurface; Matthew is too weary to fight them. He weeps into the pillow, nails digging into the leather jacket hard enough to leave marks, and, behind closed eyelids, sees nothing but the man who once serenaded him at prom, who walked with him during graduation, who stayed with him unconditionally throughout his life.

Matthew eventually drifts off into unconsciousness

* * *

and then wakes up to a dark room.

The clock reads the time_(5:36 am)_ and the date_(7/4)_ in red, glaring digits.

Matthew's heart pounds wildly in his chest and he rubs his own eyes, trying to make sense of what transpired.

A nightmare.

Nothing but a silly nightmare.

Alfred is still alive, no doubt on his way home from work, and in a few hours they'll be sitting together and eating the cake that Matthew bought for him, the one with red and blue lettering and the American flag in the corner. He'll tell him he loves him. Maybe he'll mention the nightmare and he and Alfred will laugh about it.

Matthew smiles so hard his cheeks start to ache.

And then the phone rings.


End file.
